


From Darkness Into Light

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [19]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cliffs of Insanity, Fanart, Frenemies, Gen, Pre-Canon, Rock Climbing, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: "You have to be perfect. If you aren't good enough, you die."Malik follows Altair up a cliff, and wishes he hadn't. Prequel. A tale of the Assassins. Basically Assassins Creed: Free Solo
Series: Crusade [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6874
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	From Darkness Into Light

“…and brings them out of utter darkness into light, by His will.”

Qur’an, Al Ma’idah 5:16

_Masyaf, 1183_

Malik dreamed of falling.

He never remembered losing his grip. His dreams always began in mid-air.

Tonight, the fall was very slow. Malik had plenty of time to examine his surroundings. The mountain’s face was streaked with grit and guano, and tufts of oleander sprouted from the rocks like an old man’s beard. A jagged fringe of mountains framed the dawn sky as shadowy figures watched Malik from the cliff edge. Their features faded as Malik’s memory of their faces waned, but he knew they were his family. That was the way of dreams.

The sweet, poisonous scent of oleander filled the air. Clouds boiled up from the valley, and the sky darkened to steel. A gale ripped at Malik’s hair as he plummeted towards the black rocks below. Panic stole his wits. He clawed at thin air but caught nothing but the wind.

Malik jerked awake before he hit the ground. He opened his eyes onto a _fidai’i’s_ bare cell. The whitewashed walls shone in the moonlight lancing through the narrow window. _Not again,_ he thought, running his hands through his damp hair. _I need to sleep_.

The dreams had started the night he’d returned from his first mission. Now he dreamed of falling nearly every night. He must have fallen fifty times. Each time, the figures of his family seemed more distant. 

Malik’s mother had believed in dreams. She’d loved to tell stories of magical men; imams and prophets whose dreams came true like bright daylight. The Assassins, on the other hand, believed in nothing they couldn’t see with their own eyes.

Malik had confided his dreams to Kadar. His brother had been sympathetic, but unhelpful. He’d even spoken to Rauf, who’d treated the whole thing like a joke. Finally, in desperation, he’d confessed to _dai_ Husain. That had been a foolish mistake. Days later, the memory still made Malik wince. 

“Dreams lie,” the old man snapped while Malik burned with shame and humiliation. “Dream interpretation is superstitious nonsense. Trust only dreams that foretell harsh judgment.” He had glared at Malik in a way that implied he was more worthy of a novice’s robe than a real Assassin’s belt. “You should forget your family. The Order should command all your loyalty. Assassins don’t have families.”

“I have Kadar,” Malik said, unwisely.

_Dai_ Husain had sighed. “Your attachment to your brother is unwise. You’ll never rise in rank if you persist in such weakness. Bad dreams are the work of an idle mind.”

Then he’d assigned Malik night watch for a week and made a loud speech about how undue attachments caused Assassins to falter when their comrades’ lives were on the line. The speech hadn’t done much for Malik’s popularity, and the change in schedule hadn’t helped his dreams. 

He knew from experience he wouldn’t fall back to sleep, so he rose, dressed, and went silently out down the stairs. As he stepped into the courtyard a dark figure materialised silently on the parapet above him. Two months ago, the guard’s sudden appearance would have made Malik stammer excuses. Instead, he reminded himself he was a full Assassin and held up his left hand. “Safety and peace.”

The guard nodded and faded invisibly back into the darkness. Malik looked around, wondering where he could go. Kadar would be asleep, and training in the dark by himself seemed like the sort of stupid thing Altaïr would do. It was early enough that Masyaf was still quiet; too early even for birdsong. The mountains formed a broken crown against the still-dark sky. The tallest cliff of all, the white-topped monolith the Assassins called the Mullah _,_ loomed among the peaks like a jewel in a diadem of lesser stones. A sickle moon rose above the mountain’s summit; its light too weak to cast a shadow.

Malik rubbed the stump of his left index finger against his belt experimentally. For the first time in a month, his missing finger didn’t ache.

He raised his eyes to the mountains and decided it would be a good morning for a climb.

It was said to be unlucky to dream of falling on the morning of a climb. Malik decided to go anyway. A climb would prove to _da_ i Husain he didn’t believe in superstition. A climb would use all his energy and take his mind off things. Perhaps it would even help him sleep.

He spat over his left shoulder, so his dream didn’t come true, and went straight to the kitchens.

The castle kitchens bustled with workers despite the early hour. Scarred veterans scowled as they raked out ashes from the ovens and kindled fires in the cold hearths. Malik scooped a couple of pears from a basket of fruit, filled a skin of water at the well and left quickly. His second stop was even briefer. Masyaf’s storerooms were open to Assassins at any hour. A yawning novice found him a pair of stiff-soled leather shoes and a bag of chalk to stop his hands from sweating.

Malik threw the shoes over his shoulder and tied the pouch of chalk to his belt. The first notes of the dawn chorus reached him as he headed down towards the river. The track was well-worn and easy to follow despite the half-dark. Malik bit into a pear as he walked. His thoughts returned to his dream.

His dreams had begun that day in the hills, when he’d found the site of his family’s old camp with Altaïr. His family had been gone a long time. Malik had no way of knowing what had become of them.

_They might not be dead,_ he thought. _They could have moved on. How would we know?_

If he’d stayed, things might have been different. If his family hadn’t had too many children and too small a flock to support them, or if his father hadn’t died, then his family wouldn’t have sent Malik and Kadar to Masyaf. If the castle hadn’t been nearby, if the Assassins hadn’t been recruiting, they wouldn’t have had the choice to join the Order. Malik and Kadar would have stayed with their family. They’d probably all have starved. Malik had few illusions about that.

_If I had stayed,_ he thought, _would I even think to ask these questions?_

He was an Assassin now, and he didn’t need a dream interpreter to know that was the problem. He left his family further behind with every step he took along the Order’s path. By now the gap was nearly insurmountable. As _dai_ Husain had said, Assassins did not welcome attachment. It was not their way. Malik could follow the Creed or honour the memory of his family. He could not do both.

But he couldn’t stop himself from dreaming.

The path led down towards the river. Malik followed, trying to decide which cliff he should attempt. Pale moonlight glittered through the trees as he followed the path to the river.

The Orontes was surrounded by a rim of startling green. The river hurried through the narrow gorges higher up around the castle, but down here the water ran shallow and slow. Wide shingle banks stretched into narrow valleys bordered by sheer cliffs. The first rays of the sun gilded the peaks above Malik’s head, and he slowed. After so many years, it still seemed strange to see the dawn without a prayer.

A small sound from the bushes tore Malik away from his thoughts. He paused and slipped behind a stand of oleander. His white robe was too pale for good concealment, but the sun-bleached rocks and spear-shaped leaves would break his outline, and the gurgle of the river would mask any sound he made. 

He heard a harsh click, like two pebbles touching. Something moved in the thicket to his left. Then an oryx broke cover and crossed the trail in front of him. Ghostly light gleamed from the gazelle’s hide.

Malik had seen oryx before, but they rarely ranged so far into the mountains. This one was a bachelor, a male. Strong black stripes ran from its eyes to its muzzle and blazoned its nose dramatically. The oryx tossed its head and sniffed the air, but Malik was down-wind and the gazelle couldn’t smell him.

The oryx hesitated for a moment. Then it lifted its hooves high, like a dancer, and went down to the shore to drink. Muscles rippled on the animal’s short, powerful neck as it lowered its head. Its muzzle brushed the water.

_Beauty in the infinite_ , Malik thought, recalling a poem he’d read long ago in Al Mualim’s library. The cool air, the quiet drifting river, the oryx with its sword-like horns, combined into a nearly perfect moment. He forgot his dream. He forgot his troubles. He forgot the climb he’d planned. He just watched.

The oryx swung up its head as a figure in Assassin’s robes launched itself from the bushes further up the canyon. The oryx snorted, lowering its heavy head to face the threat. The gazelle’s stark facial markings lent its head the look of a painted skull. The Assassin darted over the loose stones and jabbed at the oryx’s throat. The strike missed, but the movement brought the attacker close enough to the animal that its long horns were no threat. The Assassin circled behind the animal and the oryx staggered backwards in response. Its horns slashed the air as it bawled a battle cry.

The Assassin leaned in and stabbed down with his knife, slitting the artery, vein, and windpipe in a single powerful blow. 

Blood gushed from the oryx’s throat. Its struggles quickly weakened. To Malik’s disappointment, the animal failed to skewer its attacker in its death throes. He knew who the hunter was. Few Assassins would be foolish enough to try and kill an oryx with a knife and only one could succeed. 

Malik headed down to the river and found Altaïr by the carcass building a pyramid of stones so he could raise the animal to gut it. Altaïr pushed back his cowl as Malik approached. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you, Malik. Help me hang this up. It’s heavy.”

Malik made no move to help. “ _Ya hmar_ , Altaïr. What are you doing?”

“What do you mean, what was _I_ doing?” Altaïr set his back against the oryx and strained. The carcass rocked, nearly impaling Altaïr in its long horns. “You can see what I’m doing. What were _you_ doing? You were just standing there.”

“I was _watching_ it, Altaïr. We never get oryxes up here in these hills. You can’t see anything without killing it, can you?”

“We need meat,” Altaïr said as he raised the oryx on the stones. “The cooks will be happy. The meat on this could feed half Masyaf.”

Malik, who had his own idea about what Masyaf’s cooks would say when confronted with an old male oryx carcass at the bottom of a steep river canyon and half-rotted by summer heat and flies, shrugged. “It’ll spoil in this heat.” 

“Not if we gut it first,” said Altaïr.

“ _Allah yahkthek_ , Altaïr.”

Altaïr ignored Malik’s insult. He rolled the oryx over and began to gut it. After a moment Malik put down his shoes and chalk bag and joined in, because the only thing worse than eating half-spoiled male oryx was eating half-spoiled male oryx that had been incompetently gutted by Altaïr. They hung the dressed carcass from a tree and threw the guts in the deepest part of the river.

“All right,” Altaïr said, with far more satisfaction than Malik thought the carcass warranted. “You can go.”

Malik nearly did. He wiped his bloody hands upon his robe and picked up his chalk bag and leather climbing shoes. He noticed that Altaïr carried an identical set. Was he going to climb? Novices were forbidden to climb unaided, but they did it all the time. Assassins could climb solo any time they wanted. That didn’t always mean it was a good idea.

He paused. “You never told me your plans.”

Altaïr rinsed his hands in the river, “Nor you yours.”

Malik sighed. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d try a climb. What are you doing here, Altaïr?”

Altaïr didn’t answer immediately. He washed his hands and dried them on a scrap of rough grass. “I’m going to climb the Mullah,” he said.

Malik cursed reflexively. They’d all climbed the Mullah in sections, roped together. Nobody climbed that monolith alone without ropes. You’d have to be crazy even to try. “You can’t do that alone!”

Altaïr gazed up at the mountain with the same rapt attention other men reserved for gods. “Why not?”

“You’ll kill yourself,” Malik said bluntly, “It’s not safe.”

“We’re Assassins, Malik. Nothing’s safe. Besides, nobody achieved anything by being _safe_. Someone has to be the first.”

Malik looked up at the Mullah. The big wall gleamed in the first light of the sun. It seemed crazy to even attempt it. They might be marked for death, but there was a difference between dying in combat and dying in a pointless fall. He sighed. “Stop this, Altaïr. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“That’s all right for you to say,” Altaïr said. “You don’t have anything to prove.”

Malik wondered if Altaïr had caught the mountain-sickness. Some Assassins became addicted to the mountains. They became brief heroes who found new routes or had peaks named after them. None of them lived very long. “Everybody knows you’re the best climber Masyaf’s had in years.”

Altaïr’s mouth twisted. Malik realised Altaïr didn’t want to be the best climber Masyaf had had in years. He wanted to be the best climber _ever_.

Altaïr snorted. “Go back to Masyaf, Malik. To your brother. Where it’s _safe_.”

He spat _safe_ at Malik like the word was a curse. Malik would have left, too, if it hadn’t seemed as if Altaïr was trying to drive him away.

“Fine,” he said. “Go on. But if you’re climbing the Mullah, then I’m coming too.”

His words surprised him nearly as much as they surprised Altaïr. “Why? I don’t like to climb with a partner. I always climb by myself.”

Malik shrugged. He already regretted his impulsive decision. “I can’t let you go alone,” he said. “Besides, someone needs to tell them how you died.”

“I’m not going to die,” Altaïr gave Malik a scathing glance. “But you might. You’re not good enough, Malik.”

“Watch me,” Malik snapped.

They said nothing else until they reached the cliff. It wasn’t a long walk, but it gave Malik more time to think than he wanted. What was he doing? He was a good climber, but he wasn’t Altaïr. He knew his limits. But if Altaïr was truly set on doing this mad thing, then Malik felt someone should watch. If Altaïr failed, someone should record his death. If he succeeded, he’d need a witness. And Malik had given his word. It was too late to back down now.

The closer they came to the Mullah, the higher the mountain seemed. By the time they reached the base, Malik couldn’t see the top. The wall seemed to go on forever. It seemed mad to even think it could be climbed.

The wall looked sheer from this distance, but Malik knew the rock was covered in tiny cracks and ledges. There were seams where you could wedge a finger and roughened surfaces that would support a foot. Part of him wanted to vomit, but his reckless side welcomed the challenge. He wanted to see if he could do it. He wanted to prove Altaïr wrong.

If he couldn’t, he’d find out the hard way. Malik had seen men survive falls miraculously unscathed, but he’d also seen plenty of men die. As he gazed up the sheer face they called the Mullah’s beard, Malik thought that a man who fell from that height and somehow managed to survive would wish he hadn’t.

He reached up and touched the rock. The face was cool. The weather was perfect right now, but the wall would heat like an oven as soon as the sun hit the face. They’d need to hurry.

“Changed your mind?”

Malik shook his head. He stripped down to his leggings and changed his shoes while Altaïr shrugged off his robe.

“You don’t have to, you know.”

Malik checked his laces for the third time. “No,” he said, surreptitiously flicking two fingers over his knots to ward off the evil eye. “What about you? Having second thoughts? Or are you afraid to share the glory?”

“No.” Altaïr tied a bag of chalk around his waist. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to explain to Al Mualim and that brother of yours why you’re dead and I’m alive.”

Malik looked at Altaïr, taken aback. When the silence had stretched out for far too long Malik heard the first notes of a sleepy lark drifting up the valley.

Finally, he said, “Well, it’s a good job you won’t have to, isn’t it?”

Altaïr looked sideways at Malik, pale eyes unreadable. Then he dug into his belt and passed Malik a handful of chalk. Malik rubbed the powder into his hands. He checked his own chalk bag and waterskin. They both looked up at the cliff. Altaïr found the first hold, and they began to climb.

The first pitch was almost easy.

Altaïr climbed the face like he was running, all fluid swings and momentum. Malik followed at a slower pace. He searched for control and stability on the slippery rock and found it most of the time. He broke the rock down into a series of moves, a puzzle he solved with his mind and his body. Slide left hand up, step up with left leg, move right hand, push up with right foot. Slide right hand up, right leg, then left hand, left foot. Repeat a few hundred times.

Malik climbed better than he ever had in his life. At first he wasn’t sure if it was because he was competing with Altaïr, or simply because he would die if he fell off, but the higher he climbed the more of his thoughts fell away. There was only the wall.

He was surprised when he reached the first ledge before the sun had struck it. He was even more surprised when he found Altaïr there waiting for him.

Altaïr passed over some dried meat. The chalk on his hands gave the jerky a gritty flavour, but Malik chewed it anyway. His arms were beginning to ache. The pears he’d eaten seemed a long time ago, and he wished he’d thought to bring more food. When he was done eating he gave his water bottle to Altaïr. The other Assassin took a long swallow.

“You know the climb gets harder after this?” he said.

Malik wondered what Altaïr thought he could do about that. They had no ropes, and he couldn’t descend the route they had just taken. Once they reached the top of the cliff it was a relatively easy walk down to collect their things, but there was no safe route of return before then. “Yes. What do you expect me to do? Jump off and land in a tree?”

Altaïr shook his head. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

Malik took a deep breath. “As you wish,” he said, and they began the next pitch.

Altaïr climbed as if he was wondering where the hard moves were. Malik followed carefully. He found holds that would have made him vomit if he’d stopped to think about them. He crossed a glassy face so steep the only thing that saved him from falling was the friction of his soles on the rock. He hung from ledges no wider than a finger. He followed Altaïr up a crevice higher than Masyaf and felt like shark-hide grated his skin all the way. By now he had stopped thinking entirely. His life was a series of repetitious moves. Left hand, left leg, right hand, right leg, right hand, left leg, left hand, right leg, over and over again. By the time he met Altaïr on the Mullah’s second rest ledge, Malik felt as if he had climbed for eternity.

The shelf of rock was no wider than an Assassin’s belt. On earth the ledge would have seemed absurdly precarious, but after their climb it seemed a safe and comfortable refuge. They leaned back against the rock. Malik looked down and wished he hadn’t. “How far have we come?”

“Half-way,” said Altaïr. He passed Malik more meat. They ate and drank mechanically while the sun nailed their shadows to the rock. By now the sun had risen. Its rays heated the rock like an enormous brazier. They’d started in darkness and climbed into light. 

Malik dug in his pouch for more chalk. “Why’d you do this, Altaïr? It can’t be for fun.”

“Perfection, I suppose,” Altaïr said through a mouthful of dried meat.

Malik wondered if he had misheard. “Are you mad?”

Altaïr shook his head. “When you’re climbing, you have to be perfect. Rock doesn’t care who you are. You can’t change its opinion. It just is. If you aren’t good enough, you die.”

Malik hesitated. He felt almost sorry for Altaïr, striving for such an impossible target. A man could aim for perfection all his life and never reach his goal. Perfection was for the gods. Then he wondered who out of the two of them was more likely to survive the climb; perfect Altaïr, or merely human Malik, and felt less sorry for Altaïr.

Altaïr jerked his head towards the rock. “Let’s get on,” he said, and Malik had no option but to follow.

After a while he looked up and saw Altaïr had slowed. The other Assassin still climbed as if he was glued to the rock, as if he was certain he wouldn’t fall, but Malik could tell he was concentrating harder, carefully judging each move before he trusted his weight. Malik followed slowly. He solved the cliff’s eternal puzzle one hold at a time. On good holds, it felt like his bones were locked into the wall. On bad holds it felt like he would fall at any moment. Altaïr’s words echoed through his head.

“ _You have to be perfect. If you aren’t good enough, you die_.”

Malik knew he wasn’t perfect. He must have climbed the Mullah with a rope half a dozen times, but he could climb the wall forever and he’d never be perfect.

_Perhaps my dream wasn’t about my family after all,_ he thought. _Perhaps it was an omen._

He was no longer afraid he would see Altaïr falling from his sight. He was afraid the one falling would be him. Falling in real life wasn’t like falling in a dream. It was quick and silent and nearly always fatal. Just a sharp lurch in your stomach, followed by pain.

They climbed higher and higher until the river below them was a ribbon of liquid silver. The air cooled just enough to be comfortable. The only sounds were the birds that swooped around the cliffs and the scrape of their shoes upon the stone. The rock around them smoothed out like solid glass into sheer faces with poor handholds and slippery footing. Malik reckoned they were about three quarters of the way up. That meant they weren’t far from the most difficult part of the climb, a tricky face that led into the fissure they called the Mullah’s Nose. There were two ways up onto the Nose, both equally taxing. You could leap straight for the ledge, but such a dangerous move was mad without ropes to catch you if you fell. Or you could kick out with your left leg, brace yourself, shift your grip and reach out to grab the ledge. Both moves seemed likely to end in Malik’s death if he wasn’t careful, and maybe even if he was.

He looked up at the Nose just in time to see Altaïr make the jump. The other Assassin caught the ledge with both hands and swung himself up. Malik lost sight of Altaïr for a moment as Altaïr wormed his way up into the relative safety of the Nose. Altaïr’s movements, usually seamless, seemed oddly jerky. Malik blinked. Altaïr’s motions smoothed, and he realised he was the one shaking.

_Focus,_ Malik told himself as he crept across the rock. He inched up to the handhold and kicked out with his left leg.

His foot slipped.

_This is bad,_ Malik thought. _This is really, really bad._

Malik shifted his foot to the right. The foothold there seemed worse. A crease in the rock below seemed impossibly tiny. He would have trusted his weight to the ledge with a rope, but he had no rope to hold him. His right foot was balanced on a ledge no wider than a finger. If he slipped now, his hands wouldn’t save him. The holds were far too small.

Malik knew he had to move, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. By now he’d lost all momentum. The longer he waited, the he weaker he became, and the more strength he lost, the more likely he would fall.

A trickle of sweat snaked between his shoulder-blades.

“Malik?”

Malik closed his eyes for a second. The blackness was a welcome relief from the brightness of the cliff. “You were right,” he said to Altaïr.

“What?” Altaïr sounded alarmed.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Malik said. He opened his eyes and looked up. Altaïr was balanced in a wide ledge in the crack above the Nose, edging slowly upwards. It was a good place to rest. Malik was glad his hesitation wouldn’t cost Altaïr his footing.

“Idiot!” Altaïr hissed. “What are you doing? Waiting for the holds to grow?”

Malik locked his thumbs over the tips of his fingers to strengthen his grip. “I had a falling-dream last night,” he confessed. “First I thought it was about losing my family. Now I think it was an omen.”

“And you still came up? _Ya majnun!_ I didn’t ask you to come. All you had to do was shut up and walk by!”

Malik summoned up just enough indignation to reply. “Climbing alone is stupid! When I see something stupid, I say so.”

“If you were so smart you wouldn’t be up here! Move, Malik! Your hold is fine. Even if it isn’t, what other choice do you have?”

Malik took a deep breath. He stared at the rock. Then he looked up at Altaïr, who watched with concern that surprised him. He didn’t look down.

“Do something!” Altaïr called. “Don’t just hang there!”

Malik released his left hand and pressed down with his left foot. His fingers touched the lip of rock. He muttered a quick prayer to whatever gods were listening and pushed off with his right foot. He felt a brief movement of weightlessness. Then he caught the ledge with his right hand and swung himself up.

Above, he heard Altaïr exhale. “Move!” the other Assassin called. “You’re almost at the hard bit!”

Malik feared Altaïr was right. Nevertheless, he kept climbing. The first pitches had been easy by comparison, holds flowing one by one into an unbroken chain. Now it felt as if the wall was fighting him. The ledges were no thicker than a reed pen, the footholds no wider than the edge of a coin. They were so high now that the river was no more than a glittering thread far below.

Malik’s pause had cost him all his momentum. He had no strength left for the controlled static moves he’d used far below. His arms ached. “You go ahead,” he called up to Altaïr. “I’ll follow.”

“Idiot!” Altaïr snapped. “We’re almost there. Don’t foul this up, Malik.”

Malik reached up for another hold. His cheek brushed the warm rock. He climbed as if in a dream, each movement painfully slow, concentrating on each inch of rock as he dragged himself upwards. Left hand, left leg, right hand, right leg, right hand, left leg, left hand, right leg.

“That dream was a bad omen,” he muttered, quietly enough he thought there was no chance Altaïr could hear him.

He was wrong.

“ _Ibn kalb_!” snapped Altaïr. “You’re a superstitious fool! Everyone knows a falling dream doesn’t mean you’re going to fall. Of _course_ your dream was about your stupid family. I don’t have to be a soothsayer to know that. You think of nothing else. If you thought less and trained more you wouldn’t be stuck up here.”

Malik hoped Altaïr fell off the cliff. “Shut up,” he growled.

“Oh? You want me to hold my tongue, Malik? Come up here and make me!”

Malik levered himself up by painful inches until he reached the fissure where Altaïr had balanced on the ledge. The rock below him shone like steel. The holds he’d used were far too small to see even from this distance. Malik suddenly understood Altaïr’s concern. From up here, it must have seemed as if he balanced on thin air. He untied the bag at his waist and reached in for more chalk, only to realise that the bag was nearly empty. His water-flask was dry.

Malik dusted his hands with the dregs of the powder and looked up. Altaïr’s shadow was sharp-edged and black. The sun overhead had reached zenith. They’d been climbing for hours.

“Come on!” Altaïr needled. “You shouldn’t have anything to fear. You know the tenets of the Creed. A skilled Assassin maintains control of his environment. But you’ve never been a skilled Assassin, have you, Malik?”

Malik jammed his fist into the crack. “You don’t know anything, Altaïr!”

“I know that you’ve been acting strangely ever since we crossed that mountain pass on the way back from Damas’! So, I described the place to your brother. He said that valley was your family’s camp. And they weren’t there.”

Malik wished Altaïr would shut up. The thought of Kadar made him feel a pang of regret. All Assassins expected to die young, but never while doing something as pointless as following Altaïr up a cliff without a rope.

“You’re better off without them,” Altaïr continued as Malik inched towards him. “Both of you are. They probably starved to death. I bet your mother only gave her sons to the Assassins because she couldn’t feed you all. Or the _Franj_ came, and she was too weak to fight them.”

Malik was too tired to give Altaïr’s insults the attention they deserved. “Are you done?” 

“Not until we reach the top,” snapped Altaïr. “ Open your eyes, Malik. Joining the Assassins was the best thing that ever happened to you. What would you have done if you’d stayed? You’d only have married some poor girl who couldn’t run fast enough. Had some stupid peasant babies. And you wouldn’t even know there was any other way to live.”

Malik trusted his weight to another precarious hold. He couldn’t summon enough energy to say anything more eloquent than “Watch your mouth, Altaïr.”

“Or what? You should be grateful. You’d be a terrible shepherd. Too busy thinking. All your sheep would run away, and you’d all starve for sure. Forget your stupid family. You’re an Assassin now,” He paused. “A bad one. But still…”

Malik’s breath hissed between his teeth. He reached out for another tiny hold and raised himself with slow painstaking movements. Sweat stung his eyes. His arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets and his legs felt like they’d been trampled by the oryx Altaïr had killed. His tendons were ribbons of knives running from the tip of each finger to his aching shoulders. The rough surface of the rock and Altaïr’s needling insults were the only things that made it through the pain.

Altaïr kept talking, but Malik had long since stopped listening. He continued climbing, closing his eyes between each hold to take refuge in the darkness. Somewhere there was a future with cool shade and water, where his life didn’t depend upon tiny ridges of rock. It seemed inconceivable that such a place could exist. Malik’s life was slow, painful movement. Left hand, left leg, right hand, right leg, right hand, left leg, left hand, right leg…

Malik kicked upwards and reached for a hold, but there was nothing there. When he stretched further his fingers touched something fibrous and flexible that bowed beneath his hand, something he eventually recognized as grass. It took him a few moments to realize he’d reached the top. He dragged himself over the edge and rolled on his back. The wind brushed his face like a blessing. He saw Altaïr from the corner of his eye.

He gasped, “Water.”

Altaïr handed Malik his flask. Malik forced his blistered fingers to bend around the leather. Drops of cool water beaded the rim of the canteen. The water smelt of the river.

Malik could have drained the flask dry. Instead, he drank sparingly. They’d climbed a long way, and it was a longer walk back down. He wiped his mouth with chalk-stained hands. “Altaïr?”

Altaïr reached over for the flask. Malik swapped the flask to his left hand, forced his right hand into a fist and punched Altaïr in the face. He had no strength left in his arms, so it wasn’t his best blow.

Altaïr spat out a mouthful of blood. He glared at Malik like an outraged hawk. “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome,” Malik said.

Altaïr explored his jaw cautiously with his fingers. He winced. “ _Ya majnun_! You still live, don’t you?”

Malik stretched. He certainly felt alive. Being dead would surely be much less painful. “Yes,” he said, looking sidelong at Altaïr. “Did you mean everything you said up there?”

Altaïr nodded. 

“That’s why I hit you.”

Altaïr snatched back his flask. “Idiot.”

“Fool,” Malik unlaced his shoes. Several of his toenails came off with them. He stretched out his cramped toes and stood carefully, testing his legs. The rock was warm beneath his bare feet. A tiny lizard darted towards the edge of the cliff, then flicked its way over the edge.

Malik followed the lizard’s tracks to the very edge of the cliff. He shaded his eyes and looked out across the valley. Wreathed in haze, Masyaf seemed like a castle from his mother’s tales. Ranks of mountains stretched out far as the eye could see.

The endless view put Malik’s concerns in perspective. His family could be anywhere. There was no chance of finding them in so much space. Dead or gone, it made no difference.

He heard Altaïr come up behind him and turned. “We did it.”

“No thanks to you.” Altaïr wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’d have climbed faster alone.”

“You’d probably have died.”

“You can talk!” Altaïr punched Malik’s shoulder, pushing them both far too close to the edge for Malik’s liking. “I saw you on the Nose. You would have fallen.”

“ _Ya khara_ , Altaïr!” Malik stepped away from the ledge, shamefaced but too proud to admit it. “Haven’t you said enough?”

“You know I’m right.” Altaïr shaded his eyes and stared across the valley like he was searching for more mountains to climb.

“If you’re right, it’ll be the first time ever!” snapped Malik. He didn’t like the way Altaïr looked. The other Assassin should have been exhausted. Instead it seemed the climb had hardly tired him. “Let’s go down. We need more water.”

Altaïr nodded as he stepped away from the edge. He skirted the edge of the clearing and scouted the bushes uncertainly. Malik watched as the other Assassin peered around a rock. He sighed. “You don’t know the way, do you? Did you even think this through?”

Altaïr paused. “We can argue all you like, Malik. The fact remains I saved your worthless life. Are you grateful? No.” He ran his fingers over his jaw. “I think you broke my tooth.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I broke.”

“ _Eih lakan_ , Malik. We both know you haven’t got enough strength left in your arms to hit me again. Now show me the way down.”

Malik glared at him. “ _Ya hmar,_ Altaïr. Since you’re so strong, you can carry back that oryx you killed by yourself.”

“No thanks to you! I saved your life! You know I’m right.”

“No, Altaïr. You just _think_ you’re right.”

They left the summit, still arguing, and began the long walk down. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I’m not from the Near or Middle East and I don’t speak Arabic. I’m also not a climber. This fic is basically Assassins Creed: Free Solo and was inspired by a documentary about Alex Honnold’s ground-breaking free solo ascent of El Capitan in Yosemite. That’s climbing alone without ropes up a three-thousand feet granite cliff. If anything, I’ve toned the climbing down. Honnold spent years climbing the wall prior to his record-breaking feat and practised every move ninety or so times, so Malik and Altaïr would probably certainly have died, but that’s fiction for you.  
> Dai Husain makes another appearance terrifying Malik’s protégé Marîd in my fic No Name Under Heaven.  
> Dreams of falling are generally taken to mean loss of control or fear of losing something, For Malik, of course, it’s fear of losing his family. As usual in my stories, Malik’s need to keep the people he cares for safe clashes with the impossible demands of the Creed.  
> The poem Malik mentions is by Abu Nuwas, a scandalous eighth-century Abbasid poet of whom dai Husain would definitely not approve.  
> These fics are usually pretty clean. Not this one.  
> Ya hmar: You donkey, you ass  
> Allah yahkthek: May God take your soul, a sarcastic insult hoping that you die right then and there.  
> Ya majnun: You’re crazy  
> Ibn kalb: Son of a dog  
> Ya khara: You shit  
> Eih lakan: So that’s how it is  
> The Nose is a route up El Capitan. The kick-or-jump hold really does exist. It is called the Boulder Problems and it’s absolutely terrifying.  
> Sources (among others):  
> Free Solo (2018), by E. Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin  
> TED talk, Alex Honnold, https://www.ted.com/talks/alex_honnold_how_i_climbed_a_3_000_foot_vertical_cliff_without_ropes?language=en Alex describes how he felt freezing on Half Dome.  
> The Looking Sideways Action Sports Podcast Episode 015: Alex Honnold/Free Rider https://wearelookingsideways.com/podcasts/015-alex-honnold  
> BBC Radio 4: Don’t Tell Me The Score: Alex Honnold:Fear https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p06y7htv  
> Bouldering Bobat: Static vs Dynamic https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p1jUNuVjXQ and http://climbingschool.org/static-vs-dynamic Malik is static. Altaï is dynamic.  
> Fanart by the fantastic Caroline Parkinson, who has a lovely habit of drawing travel posters for my fics


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